Dear Little Ones,
I owe you an apology.
I’m sorry I’m not the mother I envisioned for you. This overwhelming sadness, this simmering anger, this persistent gray cloud of hopelessness—it’s not what I had in mind. I yearn to be playful with you, to sing silly songs as we create colorful self-portraits. I dream of chasing you through sunlit parks, capturing crayfish, and indulging in ice cream for lunch. I want to make playdough snakes, tackle Pinterest projects, and celebrate Dress Like a Pirate Day decked out in a tricorn hat.
But on some days, getting out of bed is a struggle. I fumble through breakfast, resorting to the television again. I can’t recall a single song to sing. If my body isn’t aching, my heart is heavy. The afternoons drag on, and I’m too drained to even attempt a craft. Everything seems dull and stifling, and it’s not the life I wanted for you.
They call this postpartum depression. It’s a complicated mix of hormones and brain chemistry, a fog that clouds the connections I used to enjoy. Happiness feels like a distant memory—some days it’s closer, but it always feels just out of reach.
Please understand, my sorrow isn’t because of you; it exists alongside the joy you bring. That’s what cuts the deepest. Despite the gift of you, I find myself trapped in sadness. I sometimes react with frustration when I should be laughing; I pull away when I yearn to reach out. I force myself to hug you, my sweet boys, because my sadness can make me forget those simple acts of love. And that makes my heart ache even more.
While I may be feeling unhappy, it doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with you. Even in our toughest moments—when I raise my voice out of stress—I’m filled with love for you. I cherish you when you’ve covered the kitchen in flour, when you’ve painted the dog, and even in those quiet, dark nights when I wake up to your cries. My love for you persists, even in the midst of my struggle.
On difficult days, I sometimes feel emptiness instead of love, but I continue to act lovingly. Love is an action, after all. I hope my efforts are enough for you.
There’s no clear reason for this depression, just a cruel twist of biology. I never asked for this emptiness. The grayness can be suffocating, and while everyone tells me to relish every moment with you, how can I enjoy what feels so obscured?
Those who romanticize the fleeting nature of infancy can’t see the weight of this struggle. They mean well, but the invisibility of depression makes it hard for others to understand. A drowning person can appear to be swimming happily, and when I reach out for help, some may dismiss my cries as mere hormonal fluctuations. The fear is real: that others will mistake my struggle for a lack of love.
I don’t need to hear those words; I hear them echo in my mind every day. This illness has robbed us both of precious moments and stolen the joy that seems to come so easily to others. Yet, the most challenging aspect of this struggle is also its greatest weakness—it can never take you away from me.
No matter how dark my days can feel, I have you to care for. Even when I feel empty, I strive to ensure you feel loved. My arms may feel heavy, but I wrap them around you. I am exhausted, yet I lift you up. I kiss you, even when it hurts. You are my motivation, my dear ones. I want nothing but the best for you. And even if I’m broken, I am still your mother.
I have you, and I keep moving forward. In the end, that has to be enough for both of us.